


Something Good

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Crack, F/M, Future Fic, Show-based
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 10:17:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11781087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: A continuation ofAn Unexpected Songby my peerless helpmeetthefairfleming, in which Sansa marries Dickon Tarly For Reasons (is pleasantly surprised).Here we find our heroes taking a sexy Bear Island vacay.





	Something Good

“You are more than I ever dared hope.” 

He says the words without meaning to and flushes when he hears himself speak them aloud. Dickon usually makes some attempt to conceal just how besotted he is with her; it’s the sort of thing his father would have cut him down for, in that low, hissing voice he usually reserved for Sam; a lifetime of submitting to the rule of Randyll Tarly does not fade away easily.

Sansa glances over and smiles at him, a warm, affectionate smile. “Am I then?” she asks, absently. She turns back to the looking glass and continues brushing her hair in long, even strokes, the profile of her face a delicate contour against the light from the window beyond her, her body clad only in an unlaced shift and stockings. Dickon could be out with his men, exploring Bear Island, or discussing House matters with their host, Lady Mormont, before supper begins. He could be sharing a wineskin with the soldiers milling about the yard – the sort of men he’s been around all his life and should be more than comfortable with – and listening to their ribald jokes and stories of comely women that beggar belief. He could be doing anything. 

It’s only that all he wishes is to do is lie against the bedstead and watch Sansa dress her hair. Dickon had thought to be free of anyone else’s power once his father had died. Instead he finds himself ceding every bit he has to Sansa – to his _wife_ , gods be good – and happily so. She is a better steward of it than his father could ever have been. Once Dickon would have felt disloyal for thinking such a thing; now he only feels glad.

Perhaps it's the foreign surroundings of Bear Island that make him lose his head, reminding him as they do of those first days of their marriage as they traveled to Horn Hill, how he made love to her each night and morning in a different room, a different place, scarcely believing his good fortune at how much she seemed to want him. That's more than he dared hope as well, after growing up in his parents’ house, a wife who looked at him with eager desire, rather than the apprehension that showed so often on his mother’s face. And gods, had Sansa looked at him with desire, nearly as much as he feels when he looks at her now. 

When she sets down her brush and lifts her arms over her head to begin dressing her hair, her shift turns translucent in the light from the window, and his desire only increases.

She knows entirely what she does to him, he’s more than sure. He’s never been an especially complicated person, for good or ill. Sansa seems to like his simplicity, his predictability, his tendency to blush and stammer at her advances. Given what he knows of her life before him, it’s not hard to understand why. Remembering her past makes him admire her all the more, her bravery, her generosity, her complete trust in him not to harm her. It also makes him feel a bit guilty for staring at her teats like a green boy, but he reasons that he’s only giving her the appreciation she wants from him. He’d give her anything she could ever want. 

Her teats move and sway as she twists delicate plaits in her hair, pinning it away from her face while leaving the bulk of it to fall down her back. Dickon’s mouth waters merely looking at them. He remembers a night as they traveled to Horn Hill, when she’d taught him how to touch them, how to lave them with his tongue and suckle at the peaks like a babe. It sets a low thrum of need vibrating through his body, though he has no desire to interrupt her. He’d never imagined himself raptly watching a lady at such intimate, feminine endeavours, but it’s one of his favorite things to do. His life has been little more than training, weapons, his father’s stern hand. The only softness he’d known was his mother and sister, but the femininity of a sister is a different beast, and the love of a mother is another stripe from the love of a wife. What he’d ignored or never even noticed in them, he adores in Sansa; the soft feel of her gowns; the filmy transparency of her shifts; the delicate lawn stockings she ties with blue ribbons that match her eyes; the music of her voice; the pink tint of her pale skin; the sibilant whisper of her brush through her hair and the heavy weight of her night braid on his chest as she lies against him in sleep. He’d never thought his life before to be a waste until he met Sansa and understood all that he’d missed. Now he would throw away his armor and never don it again, but for the way Sansa looks at him when he takes it off.

At last she rises from the dressing table. Dickon takes in the dip of her waist through the thin shift as she moves towards him on the bed, the rose shadow of her areolas and the darker shade at the apex of her thighs. Even so unclad, she looks every bit the lady. Even when she climbs atop the bed and straddles his hips, her shift puddled over her thighs, her bare flesh pressed over his crotch, warm enough that he fancies he can feel it through his breeches.

“Mmm,” she hums, looking at him as pleased as a cat with a caught rat. Her teats brush against him as she leans forward to kiss him, her hands running over the ridges of muscle on his stomach and chest. Dickon had always considered his body little more than a tool, a way to fulfill his duties, no more pleasing or unpleasing as any other body. Muscles were for work, for fighting, for strength. Now they're for Sansa. To protect her. To please her. Whatever he is that she takes pleasure in, he is glad of it.

She sighs in pleasure, opening her mouth and inviting his tongue to taste hers. He takes the invitation eagerly, setting his hands atop her thighs and moving them no further. They’ve been married only a short while, but he knows her moods well enough to know that if she wishes his hands someplace else on her, she’ll put them there herself. For now, he just flexes them in the sweet yield of her, content to let her kiss him slowly, deeply, languidly, as if they had all the time in the world instead of already being late for supper.

“Come,” she says as she finally pulls away, nipping at his lower lip. “Be my lady’s maid and help me into my gown.”

“I’d rather help you out of it,” he mumbles, a rare show of assertion for him. Sansa laughs, bright and gay. She rocks her hips in a movement so explicit that Dickon thinks he could come just like this, his breeches on and her in her shift, with only a few more such movements from her.

“Be a good boy at supper,” she says, voice rich with promise, “and we’ll see.”


End file.
